


Kid Krow OneShots

by angryjane



Series: Songfics and Etc. [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Flirting, Banter, Based on a Conan Gray Song, Confused Simon Snow, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Flirting, Flirty Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Light Angst, M/M, Oblivious Simon Snow, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining Simon Snow, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Sad Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon Snow Loves Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Soft Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Tumblr, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Loves Simon Snow, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford Eighth Year, Watford Fifth Year, Watford Seventh Year, Watford Sixth Year, high baz, high!baz, how is that not an established tag that's his constant state, or songs, will add tags later owo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26184403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryjane/pseuds/angryjane
Summary: A collection of oneshots based on Conan Gray's album Kid Krow.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow & Agatha Wellbelove, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Simon Snow & Agatha Wellbelove, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Songfics and Etc. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901521
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	1. Comfort Crowd

**Author's Note:**

> I've been planning this for a long time (heh, me? plan? who'da thought) hehe!!

The first time it happens, he’s just finished fighting a pack of werewolves. His hair’s a mess, there’s blood--some of it his own-- on his sleeves, and his eyes are hollow and sunken. 

“Snow,” I say, sitting up in bed. Naturally, it’s a full moon, and I can see him wobbling on his feet. “What happened to you?” 

“Werewolves,” He mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face, “Buncha them. Mage said t’ fight.”

It’s obvious he’s exhausted, blinking at his wardrobe. I sigh, setting my blankets aside and slipping out of bed. 

The second time, there’s no guise of a fight. He’s had a nightmare, and all I can think to do is slip into bed beside him. 

“It’s okay,” I tell him. He’s shivering. I don’t know how to comfort people. “It’s okay, Simon,” I repeat, and feel him melt into my side a little. 

“M’ name,” He mumbles, snuggling his forehead into my shoulder. I think I stopped breathing before even getting into the bed with him. He’s puffing warm, soft breaths access my collarbone where my pajama shirt is unbuttoned, and his hair brushes against my chin.

I don’t know what’s come over him, but the next night I find him in my bed, looking at me expectantly. We don’t talk about it. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

That was all six months ago. Half the nights this week he’s slept in my bed, and the other half I’ve slept in his. It’s a fragile, wordless kind of thing. In class, at mealtimes, walking across the Great Lawn or sitting during assemblies, everything appears the same as it’s always been. I sneer, and smirk, and goad him into getting worked up, just to have his eyes on me. He delivers, flustering beautifully or bunching his hands into dramatic fists at his sides. 

And then, like clockwork, the moment we get in Mummers, he’s all shy and gentle with me. Two months ago on a bright Saturday morning, he invited me to watch a movie with him on his bed, and neither of us budged for the rest of the day. Not even when his stomach growled--I’d given him the last of my salt and vinegar crisps, and he’d beamed at me--or when I’d gotten thirsty. (Bloodlust be damned, it would take an army to drag me out of his lap.) 

One month ago, with me settled into his side, the moon sneaking through the drawn blinds and reaching across freckled cheeks, he kissed my forehead, chapped lips brushing for the barest moment across my skin. We didn’t talk about that either. We never talk. 

I mean-- we  _ talk _ . About the show we’re watching, about the spells we’re working on (I’ve even helped him with a few), about the bratty first years shouting on the Lawn. And it’s unbelievably lovely, being Simon Snow’s secret friend. But we never talk about anything important. On top of it all, no matter how hard I try to be grateful, I want more. 

Today is no different: In Magickal Words, he’d fumbled over a second-year spell and I’d sneered at him and spit an insult, and then when I’d gotten back from football practice, sweating like a dog, he’d wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my soaked jersey. 

“You stink,” He’d mumbled. 

“Then get your nose out of my armpit, Snow.” 

He’d  _ hm _ ed softly, but made no move to remove himself. 

Which leads us here: Me, freshly showered, and him, pressed to my side. Snow is apparently a very clingy sort of friend. One hand on my hip and the other around my waist, he’s got himself smushed against me, his cheek against my chest, head turned to watch the show on my laptop. I’ve long since stopped paying attention to it, more invested in his soft breathing, the rise and fall of his back. Crumpled curls fall across my pajama top, a cold nose presses against the buttons, tip barely brushing through the seam and against my bare skin.

His fingers tighten in the hem of my shirt at a particularly gorey scene. “Ew,” He breathes, blinking at the screen and then up at me, “Did you see that? Totally killed that guy.” 

“Mm,” I agree halfheartedly, and he looks back towards the computer, satisfied. More times than I can count now, he’s caught me looking at him. Usually, all I get is a head tilt or a shrug, unperturbed and completely unaware of the effect he has on me. 

It’s almost midnight when he dozes off, arms going slack around me. Moving as little as I can so as not to disturb him, I close the laptop and set it aside, nestling the blankets up around us. Undoubtedly, he’ll kick them off sometime in the night, leaving me freezing everywhere we aren’t touching. 

Settling back against the pillows, I spell the bedside lamp off. Snow’s breathing is slow and steady, comforting. I sleep best like this, with his weight pressing down on me and his puffs of breath against my skin. No matter how fancy a bed I’ve got at home, or how many gargoyles are watching over me there (ridiculous, really), Mummers is always my home. 

He shifts against me, nosing further into my chest and sighing in his sleep. Snow used to have nightmares like you wouldn’t believe, thrashing and shouting night after night. I’d sit up in bed, turning to watch him writhe among the sheets, helpless to do anything. I’d wanted to wake him up, to run my hands through his curls and comfort him. But whenever I’d dredge up enough courage, I’d find my limbs were made of lead. Bravery is not one of my better qualities. (It’s his.)

He’s snoring soundly in my arms now. One curl has pitched forward onto his brow. My fingers twitch to brush it away, but I’d rather stake myself on a burning pyre than wake him. 

Snow’s an early riser; he’ll be up long before me. I’ll wake up in an empty bed to the sound of the shower and a plate of breakfast on my bedside table. He’s noticed by now that I don’t eat infront of others and has, apparently, made it his mission to feed me nonetheless. While he showers, I’ll eat, and he’ll finish off my leftovers before class. It’s so routine, we don’t even have to talk about it. We don’t  _ talk _ . 

Laying here, though, with his soft breaths lulling me to sleep, I wish we did. For all my posturing and preening, I’m shit when it comes to saying the things I really mean. I’ve never meant anything more than I mean him. Simon Snow is my solace in a shitstorm of a life, and he’ll never even know. When the term ends, he’ll be whisked off to a care home and forget all about me. Or he’ll fall into Wellbelove’s waiting arms, and then he’ll never need me again. 

He sighs, ever so soft, in his sleep. If we talked, maybe I’d tell him I love him. Maybe I’d tell him about how much I want to kiss the freckle on his jaw, the one right below his too-big earlobe. Or I’d tell him about how his laugh sounds a little bit like my mother’s old piano, or how endearing it is when he squares his shoulders for a fight. If we talked, I’d whisper how brave he is, or how clever, and good, and everything I need. 

Maybe, if we talked, I’d say all the things I want to say, all the things that’ve been building in me since the moment I saw him, since I felt the Crucible tugging me towards him, eleven years old and bouncing that infernal red ball nervously. Sometimes I think that something’s gone all wrong, that maybe Snow wasn’t meant to be my roommate; why else do I still feel like I’m being dragged into his orbit? The jolt in the pit of my stomach, pulling me wherever he goes, hasn’t dissipated a lick in the six years I’ve known him. Maybe I’d tell him so, and maybe he’d say he felt it too. 

But we don’t talk. 

My dreams that night are silent movies, black and white and lackluster. I wake up to the shower running. We don’t talk all morning. We never do. 


	2. Wish You Were Sober

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote this for [heliotrope_moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24734461/chapters/59792974)'s [showcase](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heliotrope_Moon/pseuds/Heliotrope_Moon) a while back owo
> 
> also this one's like. weirdly angsty for how the song is. not too angsty tho lmao dw

**Simon**

Most days, when he comes to visit, I’m already halfway through a big bag of crisps, socked feet up on the arm of the sofa. Most days, when he comes sauntering in, pretending he’s not worried, there’s a bottle of cider on the floor beside the legs of the couch. Most days, I don’t say anything to him at all. 

Some days—the worst days—the smell of smoke clings to him, like it used to cling to me. 

When things were good (when  _ I _ was good), almost four months ago at this point (five months, really), he’d come striding in like he owned the place (he almost does; he’s been paying my half of the rent). He’d drop a kiss on my forehead and settle into the cushions beside me. He’d toss an arm over my shoulder, always so careful not to jostle my wings too much. Even then, when things were still some semblance of okay, I hated them. 

I’d press myself into him. I’d press myself to his side and inhale him. Cedar and bergamot and that new cologne he’s been wearing—something like lavender, maybe vanilla. (Things fell apart slowly—first to go was the long nights pressed up against my mattress, then the light touches throughout the day. Then we didn’t snog at all— _ don’t kiss my lips _ , my mind screamed. Forehead kisses and hand holding disappeared. Sometimes he touches my shoulder now, or rubs my back. It’s not enough, and it’s too much.)

But even then, when things were good—so good—he sometimes smelled like smoke. I hated it. I hated it because it reminded me of when  _ I _ used to smell like smoke, when he used to smell like smoke because of  _ me _ . When I’d go off in our room, or on the Great Lawn, or in the Wavering Wood, with him in my face and me in his. Penny would drag me away, and he’d stalk off somewhere, probably to drain rats in the Catacombs, or sneer at Dev and Niall some more. I don’t know why they put up with him. (I don’t know why he puts up with me.)

But when he came back—he always came back—he had to—he’d always smell like smoke. My smoke. 

What I hate the most—about the smoke, that is—isn’t even that, though. I hate it because he’s fucking  _ flammable _ . He’s a goddamn can of gasoline, and he’s flirting with embers. 

No matter how much I pushed him, he wouldn’t give up cigarettes. I even got Penny on my side, and he just won’t listen to reason. It’s infuriating to no end. Like everything he does. Like everything between us now. 

**Baz**

Most days, when I come to visit, Snow is sprawled across that damned sofa, crumbs settled into the folds of a ratty t-shirt, in trackie bottoms with holes in the knees. Most days, when I try to be strong for him, there are empty bottles on the coffee table. Most days, we don’t even talk. 

Some days—the best days—he’ll let me sit on the end of the couch, his feet in my lap. 

When things were good (when  _ we _ were good), months ago, he’d make room for me on the couch and I’d put a hand in his hair, toying with soft curls. (He hardly ever showers now—they’re greasy and matted to his forehead.) I’d kiss his temple, then his cheek, and his strong jaw, and the mole on the tip of his nose. He’d laugh, and swat at me, and crawl into my lap. His wings (I love his fucking wings) would fan out behind him, casting us in a hazy red glow. Our own little world. 

He’d smell like something I want to eat—cinnamon and warm butter and sweat. It was good, so good. (Things fell apart too quickly for me to figure out how to stop it. He stopped sleeping in my bed and then he stopped teasing me all day and then he stopped touching me all together. And then I had to stop touching  _ him _ . Sometimes—on better days, when Bunce opens the curtains and makes him bathe—I can touch his shoulder, or his back. He flinches, at first, but then leans into me. It’s not enough, never enough.)

Even when things were good, even when he laughed and let me pet his hair and looked at me like I’d hung the moon (I didn’t; my mother did), sometimes he smelled like alcohol. At first, I let it alone. Nothing to  _ really _ be upset about. I trusted him. I trusted him not to go too far, and I trusted myself to not let him go too far. 

But sometimes when I came over, after kicking Bunce out of her own flat so we could be alone, it’d be too much. One perk of being half dead is a keen sense of smell- I could tell something was wrong. 

What I hate the most about it—about Simon melded to the couch, about the look on his face when he meets my eyes by accident, about the way he looks away like I’ve burned him, about the way he smells like cider and beer ( _ please don’t drink more beer _ , I want to scream)—is that I let it happen. 

I should have seen it. I should have stopped it. 

**Simon**

Penny avoids me now. She used to come and sit with me, and pretend to watch whatever bullshit was on the telly. But I could feel her eyes drifting over to me every minute or so, and it made my skin crawl. She probably thinks I’m some freak. (I am.)

When she looks at me now, I want to cry. There’s so much pain in her eyes. Her lip will tremble for a minute and then she’ll straighten up, and say something entirely too normal. Something about the weather, and how I should take a walk. Or something about the news. I don’t watch the news. I don’t want to know what’s happening. I just want it all to stop. 

I like it better when she’s in class. I know she and Baz try to rotate ‘Simon Duty’, so I’m not ever really alone. But even so, their classes often line up, and I’m alone in the flat. That’s the only time I get up off the sofa. I walk to the store down the block, and buy more cheap food and cider. Last week, I even bought an apple. I felt pretty proud of myself, but it went to waste in my coat pocket. 

It’s best when I’m alone. I can fall apart more completely. But then Baz will come waltzing in, trying to say something to me, and I have to pick myself back up. It’s an effort not to just break down when I see him.  _ I don’t like anyone around. _

He’s never mean to me anymore. I kinda wish he would be, so maybe I could feel like myself again. There was a night, maybe two weeks ago now, when he came in and I was sitting up, folding some towels. It had been a rather good day—I’d had water and breakfast ( _ with protein and everything! _ ), and decided to help Penny out a little, as a surprise. She does so much for me. (They both do.)

Baz had raised an eyebrow—just the one, in that posh way of his, that I can’t do. And then he’d come closer, carefully, like I was a wild animal he didn’t want to scare away. Maybe that’s how he walks towards the stray cats he drains, or the deer in the big park down the road. Except I never feel like Baz wants to eat me anymore. I’ve probably gone stale, or something. 

He’d dropped gracefully onto the couch, eyed me warily, and said in that teasing voice I like best, “Someone’s decided to be helpful for once.” 

I knew he was trying his best, trying to be like the old Baz, so maybe I’d be the old me. I appreciated it, and I even smiled. “I want to surprise Penny.” 

“She’ll definitely be surprised.” He sneered, for good measure. His eyes were practically glowing. And then he leaned forward, like he was going to touch me or kiss my cheek, and I would have let him. Except he smelled like cigarette smoke. 

I didn’t really mean to shove him that hard. (I’m surprised I had that much strength left in me. Crisps and cider don’t really make for a chiselled physique.)

Something flashed across his eyes then, something I couldn’t define. Not hurt, but something close. 

I swallowed. “S-sorry. It’s just…” 

“Simon,” He said, gently. We had an unspoken agreement, before, that he’d only call me that when he was being soft. Except he never calls me Snow anymore, and I wish he would. “You don’t have to apologize.” I knew he was talking about just then, but it felt heavier than that. LIke more. 

I didn’t say anything back. He watched me fold the towels in tense, worried silence, and then Penny got home. 

**Baz**

Bunce went away for a weekend a month ago, during one of Simon’s worst weeks. The timing was shitty as all hell, but there wasn’t much she could do-- it was for class, and most of her grade. She showed up at my door the night before. 

We had decided, before, that I would come and see him throughout the day while she was gone, that I could sleep in my own bed and he would be fine alone for a few nights. But then he got worse, very quickly. She’d collapsed on the armchair in my living room, looking more tired than I’d ever seen her. More tired than when we fought the Humdrum, more tired than when she fought off that flock of harpies our fifth year, with Simon half-dead on her back. (She’s always been fierce. Sometimes she reminds me of my mother.)

“Can you—While I’m gone, can you…” She trailed off, tossing her head back into the cushions. I wondered what Simon was doing now. Probably sleeping. It was awfully late—she must have waited until he’d drifted off before coming over. I wondered why she hadn’t just called. She bit her lip. Bunce’s lips are always chapped and bleeding because she spends all her time pretending they’re chewing gum. “I’m worried about Simon.” 

I couldn’t help it—I snorted at that and let out a peel of bitter laughter. That got a smile out of her. “Yeah, no shit, Bunce.” I’d said, sitting on the arm of her chair. We aren’t always the most touchy of friends, but I put an arm around her shoulders then, stooping uncomfortably to do so. 

“I’ll stay over. Sleep on the floor, or something.” 

“You can sleep in his bed-- he hasn’t really used it in months.” 

I shook my head. We used to sleep there. Together. “No,” I said, “I don’t think I can.” 

She didn’t need me to explain, simply nodding. My chest flooded with warm feelings for her. Bunce is too good to me, even now. “I’ll change the sheets on mine, before I go.”

“Don’t.” 

Glaring at me over the rim of her glasses—Penelope Bunce has a mighty glare, rival to my own—she sat up a little and huffed, “Basil, you don’t have to sleep on the fucking  _ floor _ —”

“No, you numpty.” I don’t usually have cause to insult Bunce’s intelligence, so I revelled in it for a moment. “I’ll change them myself. You’re stressed enough as is.” 

She leaned back into the chair, satisfied. “Alright.” 

We didn’t say anything for a while (there’s never anything to say), and I thought she’d fallen asleep. I was about to get up to find her a blanket when she mumbled something.

“What?” 

“I said, thanks.” 

I grimaced. “Don’t thank me.” 

There’s nothing to thank me  _ for _ . This is my fault. I let this happen. 

Bunce was already getting up and stretching. “Stop making that face. Stop thinking self-destructive thoughts. You’re doing the best you can.” 

I hadn’t had anything to say to that, too tired to fight. 

**Simon**

He’s sitting beside me on the sofa today. I wasn’t going to let him, but he didn’t ask. Just picked my feet up off the arm of the couch—my legs tingled where he held me with strong, calloused hands, pins and needles shooting up my skin—and took a seat, letting my legs fall into his lap. 

We don’t say anything. I’m not watching the telly, and he’s not even pretending to. My face burns where I can feel his eyes on me. 

“You smell like cider,” He says at length.

“You smell like smoke,” I counter, careful not to look at him. 

His voice is strained when he replies, “We match.” 

I shrug. He used to like that.

“Love,” He says slowly. I flinch at the pet name. I haven’t heard it from him in so long.

“Yes,  _ darling _ ?” I spit. I think I’m going to cry. 

“Can I ask you a favor?” 

He’s being so delicate, like I’m made of glass. I want to tell him I’m not going to shatter, but I’m a shit liar. I’m definitely going to cry. It’s so un-Baz-like, so odd for him. My Baz is sharp edges and a sharper tongue, all stark contrast and bitter laughter. 

_ (My Baz _ . I don’t think I’m allowed to call him that anymore. But the thought of someone else saying it-- him being anyone else’s-- makes anger flare up something mad in the pit of my stomach. I want to shout. I don’t. Instead I continue to avoid his gaze and pick at the sofa cushions.)

“What is it?” I sniff, and he huffs, a gentle laugh. I don’t know what I’m doing that’s funny, but I’m glad he’s enjoying something from this. I’m not.

“Will you dial it back a little with the cider?”

I swallow. Admittedly, I know I’m going a little off the edge with it. I  _ know _ . But when it’s just me in my head, when Penny’s in class and Baz sits and watches me silently, with that thousand mile stare, it helps to have a buffer. Something to fill my head with cotton, to cushion the blow. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at him, careful not to move my head lest he know I’m looking. It’s no use, and I know it. Even if he weren’t watching me, his damned vampire senses would know. Usually I think it’s cool, but right now it’s just annoying. 

As it is, though, he’s already looking at me, so I give up and turn fully towards him, my feet still in his lap. Carefully, as if he thinks I’ll run off (I just might), he puts his hand on my shin. I’ve got my joggers rolled up to the knees-- I still overheat like a furnace. His hand is cool and I sigh. 

He’s got this look on his face. Tired, hopeful, just short of pleading. And hurt. I decide quickly that I don’t like it. 

“Er… yeah.” I say slowly, chewing my lip. His hand rubs gently back and forth on my leg. It’s not too much. 

“Thank you, Simon.” He says, smiling softly. 

I nod, turning back to the telly. I don’t know what’s on. I don’t even realize I’m crying until a tear slips off my chin and lands in my lap. 

**Baz**

To his credit, he does ease up on the cider. Only half the days I come to visit now is there a bottle hanging off his hand, and even then there are far less empty bottles strewn around. He’s on a good streak, I think, since we talked. He flushes when he sees me now, and sits up a little so I can sit on the other end of the couch. 

Two days ago, he asked me about my classes. I’d been so excited that I’d gushed for almost an hour-- my classes aren’t that exciting (economics rarely is), but it’d been something. He hadn’t said much, just looked at me and nodded every once in a while to show he was listening. It’s embarrassing, really, how much something that small made my heart flutter into my throat. 

For a split, mortifying moment I’d thought I was going to cry, choking on my words as I rushed to tell him about my latest assignment, or the girl who sits next to me and smells like vodka and cherry candy. He’d even laughed when I told him I’d thought about draining her, just to be rid of her snarky comments. (She seems to think, for reasons unbeknownst to me, that we are friends.)

Today, Bunce is sitting on the armchair beside the window when I come in, book propped in her lap and phone in her hand. She’s typing furiously and hardly looks up when the door swings shut behind me. Her hair’s in a blue knot at the top of her head, spilling out onto her forehead in these tiny, springy curls. 

Spread like butter across the sofa, Snow twitches when he sees me, giving me the barest hint of a smile. I smirk back, dropping my stuff on the coffee table and taking a seat on the ground by his midsection. 

His nose scrunches. “You smell like smoke.” 

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Astute observation, Snow.” I don’t know if I’m allowed to be snarky to him today, if he’ll crumple back in on himself if I am. 

“I wish you would quit,” He tells me earnestly. 

I glance at Bunce. She’s looking at me already, eyes sharp over the rim of her glasses. (She’s upgraded from cat-eyes to round, black ones that make her face seem even rounder, though she still switches when the mood strikes. I never thought I’d miss the cliché witch look she had going, but here we are.) “You know, Basil, I agree,” She tells me now, chewing thoughtfully on one purple nail, “It’s shitty for your body, and you’re flammable, for Merlin’s sake.”

“I don’t think vampires can get lung cancer,” I tell her. 

She shrugs. “We don’t know that.” 

“It smells gross.” Simon chimes in. He’s got this look on his face like he’s deciding whether or not to close himself back up. I won’t let him. There’s not a bottle in sight today—possibly Bunce’s influence—and the bags under his eyes are lighter today. 

“Compelling point,” I accede, “I’ll… cut back.” 

I know it’s a bad habit, and not one I’ll be able to easily let go, but the way his face lights up makes it worth it. 

“Thank you, Baz,” he says, gracing me with that grin for a moment longer before flopping back into the cushions. The television is running-- some program centering on Gordan Ramsey terrorizing children-- and he turns his attention back to it, still smiling. 

My mother smoked, and then my aunt after my mother’s death. When she was headmistress, her office always smelled like tobacco and expensive perfume. She’d let me sit on the floor by her feet as she graded papers and talked on the phone, and then she’d smile at me and tell me she appreciated me helping her with her work. 

Bunce goes back to her book, taking notes on her phone, and snarking about the poor kids on TV. I smile, watching her, and let my head fall back against Snow’s side. (He lets me.) Penelope reminds me of my mother sometimes, unwavering and unyielding, not afraid to go for what she wants. I guess between her and Fiona, I don’t really  _ need _ to smoke. 

Simon giggles on something on the screen. I can feel the vibrations against the back of my neck, and his skin is warm even through his ratty t-shirt. 

It could be the sunlight or the way Penelope is chewing on the hem of her shirt, or Simon’s small laugh, but I feel like things could get better. If he lets me, if Bunce helps me, if I’m strong enough or brave enough or good enough. 

“That poor kid,” Penny says, “He’s trying his best.” 

“He’s burning his fucking chicken, is what he’s doing,” Simon grumbles. 

I glance at Simon over my shoulder. There’s a mole on his forehead that wasn’t there yesterday, and his skin’s warmer than it looked the day before. “I think he’s doing just fine,” I tell him, “Just fine.” 


	3. (online love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yes, i skipped maniac. i can't write it rn... brain said No

One of the biggest accomplishments in Simon’s life thus-far, though he’s hardly proud to admit it aloud, is his tumblr following. Call it what you will: cringey, stupid, a waste of time, but it took a lot of work to get where he is now, and privately, he’s proud of it nonetheless. 

The only real life person who knows about it is Penny, by virtue of their no-secrets pact. She hadn’t laughed in his face like he’d expected her to, which was a plus. Instead, she’d shrugged and asked him what he blogged about. She didn’t even think it was weird that it was all about his obsession with this one book. 

“The characters are just fantastic, Penny! And the plot is so good. It’s like- like Harry Potter but gay and not racist and there’s-”

She’d thrown her hands up and grinned at him knowingly. “It’s weird to see you so hyped up about a book. I didn’t even know you could read, with how your grades are looking.” 

So she hadn’t thought it was weird. If anything, she’d been supportive. He hadn’t bothered telling Agatha, since they don’t really tell each other things anymore. Didn’t, even when they were dating. 

The best part though-- the best part is talking to the other fans. Getting messages out of the blue doting on his content, his inbox flooding with headcanons and the like. Debating in the reblogs, that sort of thing. Asks are his favorite, always have been. Except recently they’ve gotten even more special, since this one blog has become a repeat customer. 

**_gay-vampire_ ** . Simon will be the first to admit he’s spent an obsessive amount of time looking at that blog. “Light a match inside your heart, then blow on the tinder,” the header reads. It’s all dark and gothic too, with gargoyle emojis and everything, the works. Simon couldn’t imagine that gargoyle emojis just come on your iphone; he must have made them special. Prick.

The first ask was kind of hostile, in an arguably loveable way. _ “you’re out of your fucking mind if you think chaz is a top”.  _ Simon had snorted aloud, garnering a soft, “shh” from Penny beside him. She had been studying, and he had been slacking. The routine.

“ _ he’s too smooth and posh to be a bottom. altho i can accept he might be a pillow princess”, _ he’d answered, and then he’d tossed his phone aside, figuring that’d be the end of it. 

When he gave up on his books yet again, he found another slew of asks in his inbox, all from the same person. It added up to almost an entire essay, explaining in excruciating detail why Chaz was a bottom. Simon chuckled breathlessly at “ _ am I passionate about this because I relate to chaz and am also a bottom? Yes, but that’s beside the point. It’s about the principle of it…”  _

“Simon, this is a library, remember? You’re supposed to be quiet,” Penny had hissed, poking his side with her pen, “Get back to studying. Tumblr can wait.”

“How did you know I was-”

“Simon. Come on.” 

“Sorry, Pen.” Scrubbing a hand down his face, he exited tumblr mournfully, opening the tutoring app instead.  **_gay-vampire_ ** could wait. 

Once Simon had eventually relented that Chaz was, in fact, a bottom-- not without putting up a good fight, of course-- he’d figured the asks would stop. This guy had made his point, said his piece. The transaction should have been, by all accounts, over. 

But instead the messages only increased tenfold, **_gay-vampire_** refuting everything Simon said. He even pulled up with what he called “textual evidence”, quotes from the book itself that he rubbed relentlessly in Simon’s face. On a whim, he added _‘practically a married couple w_ ** _@gay-vampire_** _’_ to his bio, and within two hours, the other’s bio matched. _apparently, i’m married- to_ ** _@chosen-one-61_** _, of all people. figures._ (And if that sent a thrill down Simon’s spine, that was no one’s business.) 

“How do you know he isn’t some creep?” Penny had huffed, “Pass me the developer.” 

He’d handed it over, still focused on his phone. They had been in her bathroom, and he was supposed to be helping her turn her hair orange. 

(“Really, Penelope?  _ Orange? _ ” Agatha had groaned, rolling her eyes, “It’ll come out brassy.”

Penny’d huffed. “What if I  _ want _ brassy?” 

Another eye roll. “Trust me, you really  _ don’t. _ ”) 

‘Helping’ equated to Simon leaning against the counter beside her, chewing his lip and waiting for  **_gay-vampire_ ** to respond to Simon’s most recent ask. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Penny. His bio says he’s 18. Same as me.” 

Snorting, she’d shot him the side-eye. “I know this might come as a shock to you, but people lie, Simon.”

He hadn’t had a good answer for that, so he’d shrugged, pocketing his phone. 

“Do you even know his name?” At his mumbling, she’s sighed, turning fully towards him. “Maybe start with that, then.” 

And so, later that evening, sitting in bed and listening to Davy stumbling drunkenly around the kitchen below, he found himself staring at  **_gay-vampire_ ** ’s message popup and biting on his thumbnail restlessly. It, too, was black and red, like the rest of his aesthetic. (“Dark academia,” Penny had sniffed, a faint note of approval in her voice, “Very nice.” Simon couldn’t understand why relief flooded him then, with Penny’s reluctant blessing, but it didn’t matter.) 

_ Are you a creep, _ he typed out slowly, then immediately backtracked. You can’t just  _ ask _ people if they’re a creep; that was rude. 

He started again:  _ what is your name. _

No, too blunt. Too quick. He deleted it, tapping his socked foot. 

_ Question for you _ , he tried. That looked about right. Enough lead-up, not too daunting. He hit send, and immediately tossed his phone into the pillows. 

Yawning, he stood up and stretched, cracking his back and heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He was hardly halfway to the door when his phone dinged from the mattress, the designated tumblr sound. 

He’s pouncing on it ridiculously fast, over-eager, and sure enough it’s a message from  **_gay-vampire_ ** . Taking a deep breath, Simon opened it, hands shaking. 

_ Shoot _ .

A startled laugh made its way out of Simon’s nose.  _ what’s your name? _

_ Basil _

Weird name, Simon thought.  _ never heard that before. like the leaf? _

_ No. B-ah-sil. Short for Basilton. My friends call me Baz. _

Swallowing, Simon takes a seat on his bed, eyes trained on the screen.  _ can I call you that? _ (Can we be friends?)

_ Only if you tell me your name. Fair’s fair _

_ it’s simon. _

_ So…. is Simon your favorite character only because you have the same name? _

_ is chaz only your fave bc ur names rhyme? _

_ Touché. Although I thought we had established he’s my favorite because he’s a bottom. _

_ right. silly of me to forget _

It’s just as easy as the asks  _ Baz _ has been shooting his way. The mental volleyball, the back-and-forth. Almost bickering.  _ Practically a married couple, _ Penny’s voice rings in his mind again. 

_ I have to get to sleep, Simon. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. _

He can’t help the twinge of disappointment.  _ sleep is for the weak _ , he flails. 

_ I’m a very weak man. _

_ sounds fake but ok. gn. _

_ Goodnight  _

And then, almost a minute later,  _ <3 _

Dropping his phone back into the pillows, he exhaled shakily, a smile spreading across his face as he buried it in the pillows. 

Not much changes after that night, not right away. The asks continue, now accompanied with bickering dms. He finds out they’re in the same time zone, in the same fucking country. Just a two hours drive to see him. 

Next, he discovers Baz is the oldest of five. His mother is dead. His father’s name is Malcolm, his favorite food is salt and vinegar crisps, he has two best friends, one of which is his cousin and is dating the other.

With every little detail Simon uncovers about this strange boy, he gives one back. First: he’s an only child. From the foster system, with a shit home situation now. Never met his mother, but has a weird faux-aunt named Ebb. ( _ She seems lovely, _ Baz had said. Simon had smiled for hours.) 

He lets on that his favorite food is sour cherry scones, the way Ebb makes them at her cafe. In retaliation, Baz says his stepmother’s scones are most definitely better, and challenges him to a bake off. Simon’s heart flutters at that-- that implies they’d meet. In person. 

Grinning, Simon returns that he has a best friend and an almost-friend. When Baz asks, he begrudgingly explains the Agatha situation, and Baz is mostly sympathetic:  _ If she doesn’t want to be friends with you now, she’s not worth it.  _

Two weeks and countless messages later finds Simon in the library with Penelope, once again failing to study for his midterm. He’s only got one week to catch up on the rest of his missing assignments, and yet all he can do is tap anxiously at the table in front of him, waiting for a buzz from his phone. 

“Sit still,” Penny admonishes for the fifth time in the past hour, “Do you need me to tape you to the chair?” 

“Dunno. Maybe?” 

She snorts, looking up at him over the rim of her glasses. “Say, can you go grab me a book? You look like you could use a break anyway.” 

It’s a lovely offer, really, but something about the way she’s looking at him is off. “...Sure.” He agrees, eying her warily. “Why do you look like you’re plotting my demise, Pen?” 

“I always look like this.”

“Not really.” Standing, he stretches an arm over his head, back cracking in the process. “Usually you’re plotting other people’s demise, not your best friend’s. What book is it?” 

“ _ History of Sexual Psychology, Volume III. _ Natasha Pitch.” 

“Funny name.” 

Dropping her pen to stretch her own shoulders, Penelope rolls her eyes at him, “She’s a very famous psychologist, Simon. I know you had a lesson on her work last week.” 

“How did you know that? We aren’t even taking the same classes.” 

She scoffs. “How did you  _ not  _ know? It’s your class!” 

Shrugging, Simon turns on his heel and sets off in what he thinks is the right direction. Hopefully. 

By the time he gets back, after almost ten solid minutes of frustrated searching and stuttered pleas for help to not one but two librarians, Simon is ready to focus, the uneasiness thoroughly worked out. Dropping the book on the table before Penny with a resounding  _ thud _ that draws a glare out of the brunette a table over, he falls back into his seat. 

“Found it. Why are there  _ so many books _ ?” He huffs, grabbing for his phone. When Penny’s eyes dart towards it guiltily, it’s almost so quick he doesn’t catch it. Almost. “...Pen? Did you do something to my phone?” 

“No,” She tells him, looking pointedly at her work, “Get some studying done.” 

“You know, you’re usually a better liar than that, Pen.” Ignoring her grumbling, he unlocks his phone. (Of course Penny knows the passcode; no secrets means  _ no secrets _ .) She hadn’t even bothered to close the tumblr app, her first mistake. Her second: she’d left the messages open too, leaving no trace of a doubt what she’d been up to. 

“Penny!” 

Looking around them at the other patrons, Penny hisses. “Shh, this is still a fucking library!” Simon ignores her, glancing back down at his phone to read the texts. 

_ I have a few questions to ask you, mister. An interrogation of sorts, if you will.  _

_...You’re using proper grammar. What the fuck? _

Simon snorts at that. He and Baz have had the grammar debate many times in the past fourteen days, coming to a reluctant stalemate on the matter. 

_ Ooh, I like you. _

_ Right, from what Simon’s told me, I assume I’m speaking with Penelope? _

_ You assume correctly. _

_ Nice to meet you, I suppose. Ask away.  _

  1. _Are you a creep?_



_ No. I don’t think so. I am a vampire though. _

_...Sure you are. 2. Are you actually 18? _

_ Yes. 24 Feb 1997 _

_ A pisces? Nice.  _

_ When is Simon’s birthday? If I’m allowed to ask that,  _ **_ma’am_ **

_ Don’t snark me. June 21.  _

_ A gemini… interesting.  _

Simon didn’t know astrology (that’s what they were on about, right?) was one of Baz’s interests. He files that information away for later, blinking up at Penny. “I can’t believe you’ve done this.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a very me thing to do, Simon. You should have seen it coming.” 

“See it coming? I can’t even see  _ Tuesday _ coming, Pen.” 

_ Do you like astrology, Basil? I think it’s all bollocks. _

_ It has some merit. Apparently, Simon and I are a bittersweet match. Equal parts frustration and love.  _

_ Love? Getting ahead of ourselves, are we? _

Simon flushes, scrolling frantically through the messages. 

_ Quiet. Was that all?  _

_ No, I have a lot more to ask, but Simon will be back any minute now _

_ Oh, so you stole his phone. I see _

_ Of course I did. I love Simon, but he can be a bit naive. Someone’s gotta look out for him.  _

Eying his best friend across the table, Simon whines, “I am  _ not _ naive, Penny!” 

“Are too. Are you going to get  _ any  _ studying done?” 

“This is your fault! You’re the one who went all mother hen on him! I have to make sure you didn’t do anything weird!” 

Scoffing, Penny turns the page of her textbook dramatically. “I did no such thing. I would  _ never. _ ”

“Lying again!” 

“Just do your goddamn homework, Simon.” 

“Okay,  _ mom _ .” 

_ I assume you’ve put his phone back. Nice talking to you, Penelope. _

_ SORRY. This is simon, i killed penny _

_ I’d like to see you try. She seems far more competent than you.  _

_ Bitch i thought we had something… i thought u were bae, turns out ur just fam _

_...What the fuck are you talking about? _

_ le GASP! Have u never seen that vine??? _

_ Again, what the fuck are you on about? _

_<https://youtu.be/kz_w_qUyDQ8> _

Penny’s tossing eraser caps at him from across the table. “Simon, I swear I’m going to smash that thing if you don’t get some studying done. You’re going to fail, and then you’re going to whine at me for the next three months, until your next big exam. Which you will inevitably fail as well, I presume.”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Simon mumbles, but sets aside his phone nonetheless. Those videos will probably take Baz a while to get through anyway. 

It’s after a month of messaging that he gets the text:  _ you live in London, right? _

_ yeah, y? _

_ My family and I are visiting the city next weekend.  _

Sitting up straight in bed, Simon types frantically at the keys, grin spreading across his face.  _ yeah? _

_ Yeah… I was hoping you knew the best spots? _

Simon deflates. That’s all he wanted? Chewing his thumbnail, Simon settles back into the pillows. 

_ oh…. uh, yeah. Ebb’s cafe, of course. it closes at six on weekends, tho, so u gotta get there before that. it’s p easy to find.  _

_...I meant, I was hoping you could show me all the best spots yourself. _

And just like that’ his heart’s racing all over again. 

_ oh thank god. next weekend you say? _

_ Yeah. We get in on friday night. I’m free all of Saturday. _

_ hotel? _

_ No, I’m staying with my aunt Fiona. My father can’t stand her, so they’re all going to a hotel. _

_ cool, send me the address? _

_ 61A Baker St. _

_ nice _

_ See you then, Simon. _

_ See you, Baz. _

Simon falls asleep with a smile. 


	4. Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how does this relate to the song? i have no fucken idea.

I’m no good with words, but I think the way I would describe Baz right now is  _ out of his mind. _ I think Dev and Niall got him drunk, or maybe high. Stumbling around the room to get ready for bed, he’s sluggish, muttering to himself under his breath.    
“Er,” I start, sitting up a little in bed. There’s a faint redness to his eyes, and an even worse stain to his lips. “I think you got a little something…” I trail off, gesturing vaguely at my own mouth. 

Straightening, he sneers, and I can see his teeth are a muted pink. Sloppy feeding tonight, then. “No I don’t,” He tells me haughtily, smirking down at me. While usually I’d be pissed and maybe a little intimidated, tonight it falls flat. In the seven years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him this way. Off-kilter, unhinged, almost boneless as he throws himself through the door to the en suite. 

I can hear the sounds of the cabinet and sink, followed by a thud. I scramble out of bed and to the open doorway. 

He’s spread across the ground, a lazy, carefree smile on his face. I’ve never seen him look like that before-- almost like a child. (Even when we were younger, Baz was an uptight tit.) 

“You good?” I ask uneasily, watching as he reaches up and grabs at his hair. He seems surprised to find it there, quirking a brow thoughtfully as he runs his fingers through it. Baz has lovely hair; it looks soft and shiny, and I think it’s best when he comes out of the shower and it’s falling down around his face. When he slicks it back like he started doing third year he just looks like a mafia boss, or maybe Dacula. 

“Peachy,” He says- no, scratch that. He  _ giggles _ . I have never once in my life heard Baz Pitch  _ giggle _ , and I’d argue I know him better than anyone. 

“What did Dev and Niall do to you?” I demand. 

He ignores me, rolling over so he’s on his stomach on the floor. He’s lost his blazer, and his shirt’s come untucked, hitching up to show his smooth lower back. Pointedly, I avert my gaze. He’s twirling a lock of hair around his finger, watching intently with drooping eyelids as the strand wraps tighter and tighter around his finger, which has gone pink. He must have drank a lot in the Catacombs, or maybe weed makes vampires even more loopy. (He  _ reeks _ of it-- weed, that is. I didn’t even know he smoked.) 

(Makes sense, actually. He has less blood, theoretically; I shouldn’t be surprised it affects him so much.)

“Baz,” I try, moving closer and dropping into a crouch, “Get up. You have to go to bed.”

He huffs, looking up at me through his lashes. He’s got long, thick lashes like a girl, and I used to get mad jealous over it. There’s a light flush dusting across his stupid high cheekbones, another sign he’s well-fed tonight, and his eyes are flickering around my face frantically. 

“You’re so pretty,” He tells me. 

I snort, “Okay, sure Baz. Get up, c’mon.” I probably should just leave him here. He’s supposed to be my enemy, for god’s sake-- I should let him fall asleep here, wake up in his own filth. I can imagine it now: the usually oh-so-poised and graceful Baz Pitch, a disgusting, groggy puddle on the bathroom floor. Not to mention the tile can’t be too nice on his back. 

I sigh. “Up,” I try again, poking at his shoulder. With a groan, he shifts, propping himself up on his elbows and twisting to look at me more intently. I feel like Penny when she’s trying to herd me into studying. 

“You really are so pretty,” He says again, the dopey smile lighting up his face again. 

“So are you, Baz, now get the fuck up.” 

His laugh then sounds like someone else’s. A boy not so stuck-up, not so mean. Or maybe a boy not so tired, not a toy soldier like me. Gripping his arm, I haul him up with me, and he grunts, dropping all his weight onto my shoulders as he throws an arm over them. He’s not as heavy as I expected him to be, and it’s easy to drag him back to his bed and deposit him on his meticulously-folded blankets.

“Do you think you can get changed?” I ask, rifling through his wardrobe for those stupid silk pajamas he insist on wearing. Under normal circumstances, Baz would skin me alive for even looking in the general direction of his wardrobe, but these are definitely not normal circumstances. 

When I turn around, clutching his pjs (I hope I rumple them), he’s got that goofy smile plastered across his face again. 

“What?” I ask, then go on without awaiting an answer, “Do you think you can put these on, or are you gonna sleep in your dirty rat blood clothes?” 

His eyebrow twitches. I think he’s trying to do that thing he usually does, where he makes me feel inferior with his one brow. It falls flat, of course, and I can’t help but smirk back at him. 

“Just get up and put these on,” I instruct, thrusting the clothes out at him. On wobbly legs, he stands, starting to unbutton his shirt. I should turn away right about now, but my eyes catch and stick on the way his nimble fingers pull at the buttons. Even in his inebriated state, he mindlessly makes the smallest gestures graceful, though he can hardly stand upright. 

My face flushes. “Faster, Baz,” I tell him tersely, blinking away from his hands and up to his face. 

There’s a cheeky grin there now. “Yes, _ sir _ ,” He practically purrs. A shiver shoots down my spine, my stomach churning.

I can feel my face lighting up further. There’s something indecent about the way he’s looking at me now-- it reminds me, almost, of the predatory way he looks at me when he’s raring for a fight. Except there’s something else… I shudder, turning my back to him. 

“Just get it over with.” 

He laughs, that high, carefree one again, but doesn’t respond. There’s a thump from behind me, but I don’t turn back towards him until he slurs, “Done.” 

His buttons are misaligned, one side tucked haphazardly into his bottoms. I huff a laugh, striding closer. Almost on instinct, my hands fall to his collar, undoing his hard work. 

“Damn Snow,” He giggles, “At least buy me dinner first.”

I flush once again. “I’m fixing your buttons, you tosser.”

“Or,” He says, and his voice is lower, huskier than I remember it, “You could just take the shirt off entirely. Yours, too.” 

It’s work to keep my eyes focused on the buttons, to not glance up at him as he says it. To not look at his lips curling into a smirk, to not look at his dark eyes. Crowley, what is wrong with me today? What’s wrong with  _ him? _ (He’s high out of his mind; I have no excuse.) “You’re lucky the Mage doesn’t let phones in here, otherwise I’d be filming this and posting it everywhere.” 

“Filming?” Baz parrots slyly, “Kinky.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Fuck  _ me _ .” 

What is it about weed that makes people horny? The one time Agatha and I had tried was the only time we’d even gotten close to second base. “Maybe later,” I hum, finally reaching the bottom button. “Can you do it right?” I’m not entirely sure why this matters-- him having mismatched buttons. He’s just going to bed, and he’s going to wake up feeling like shit either way. 

But Baz likes his things in order, and watching him fumble with his shirt… it’s perhaps the most pitiful I’ve ever seen him. Something in the back of my mind tells me, again, that I should leave him alone. Warning bells ringing in my ear, I start on his buttons anew, pushing his clumsy fingers aside. It feels like the longer this goes on, the more uncoordinated he gets. 

Standing this close to him, I can feel his breath ghosting across my ducked head, the distinct smell of weed wafting over me. I try not to gag. (Beneath it, though, I can still smell that scent that’s so distinctly Baz: his shampoo, and disgustingly posh cedar cologne. Layered atop it, the catacombs, a musty sort of smell I’ve long gotten used to, found comfort in knowing that that’s where he is, not hurting anyone, not being hurt.)

I’m halfway down the line when I feel fingers in my hair, toying at it. His touch is surprisingly gentle, tugging a little at one curl. 

“Stop that,”I tell him, but I make no move to bat him away. He giggles, dipping his head a little so his own hair brushes my forehead. 

“ _ So _ soft,” He murmurs, pulling lightly again. I imagine that if I’d had a mother, or even father, this is what it’d have felt like for her to run her fingers through my hair. It’s nice, almost, if I can forget it’s my (confirmed? He hasn’t denied anything tonight.) vampire of a roommate’s fingers grazing my scalp. 

“There,” I tell him, finishing off and pulling my hands away. Reluctantly, I step back, his hand falling from my hair. Immediately, I miss the feeling, but push it away, squaring my shoulders. “Go to bed now, Baz.” 

He pouts, one of his best ones yet. Baz’s face is made for pouting, I think. “Make me,” He’s practically whining, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Absolutely not,” I say, turning my back resolutely and marching over to my own bed. Pulling back the covers, I climb in, pointedly not looking at him. Without hesitating, I turn my back to him, willing the lights off. They listen, flickering out. I can do that now. I can do all kinds of weird, impossible shit now. 

I can hear some rustling behind me, accompanied by frustrated mumbling. For a moment, I think he’s gotten into bed, but then I feel tugging at the blankets. Cold hands slip around my middle, the mattress dipping behind me beneath Baz’s weight.

“The fuck are you  _ doing? _ ” I whisper, looking over my shoulder. His arms tighten around my waist as he settles in, his chest coming up against my back.

He giggles that impossible giggle again, sounding for the world like a cat who’s gotten the canary. “Going to bed. You said to, didn’t you?” 

Smug bastard. “Not what I meant, Baz. Get in your own bed.” 

“Make me,” He singsongs again, pressing his cheek to the back of my neck, just above my t-shirt collar. His breath is cool on my skin and smells like toothpaste. This close, the smell of his shampoo is even stronger, flooding my nostrils. It’s infuriating. 

I could, theoretically, actually make him. He’s not that heavy, and he’d hardly put up a fight if I grabbed him. But hauling him across the room and heaving him onto his own mattress would be such a hassle, I reason with myself, sinking into the pillows further. And he’ll probably wake up sober in the middle of the night anyway, I go on mentally, sighing as one of Baz’s hands fists in the fabric of my shirt, just below my ribs. He’ll be disgusted and disappear to his own bed, I finish as his other hand slides up under the hem and settles, cool, on my stomach. 

So really, it’s not worth it. Yes, that’s it. I close my eyes, relaxing. Penny would be proud of me for using logic like this. She always says I never think. If this is where thinking gets me, soft and warm and sleepy, then maybe I should listen to her advice and use my brain every once in a while. 

“Night,” Baz breathes against my nape. 

“Night,” I echo, and listen to his breathing even out. Not long after, I follow him off, feeling safe and warm. 

When I wake up the next morning, feeling more refreshed than I have in years now, Baz is nowhere to be found. I ignore the disappointment in the pit of my stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> baki baki ni oreeee


	5. fight or flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I FORGOT I WAS WRITING THESE SVLKaALDK:S

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe i forgot i was writing these
> 
> also this is the first one i wrote and i haven't looked at it since or even read it all the way thru so sorry if it's shit but also idc
> 
> yes i am sorta skipping around leave me alone i am working on the cut that always bleeds rn

Logically, I know I should have seen this coming. I  _ know _ . It’s foolish of me to ever think this could work, and even more foolish of me to try anyways. 

Things between Snow and I have been even worse than usual the past few weeks. Partially because I’ve been a dick, I admit, but more so because Wellbelove’s finally gone and broken up with him.

No one in our year is surprised. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that they aren’t suited for one another. (That doesn’t stop the first years from talking about the golden boy’s sorry excuse for a relationship at every turn. First years are, historically, fucking stupid.)

The day it happened, Snow had come storming in like the Inquisition, worked himself up into a right fit on his bed. I’d sneered at him over the top of my Greek textbook, quite enjoying the angry flush on his face. The air around him was practically electric, the ends of his poor sleeves already sizzling. 

“This is your fault,” He’d opened with. 

As per usual, I raised a lazy eyebrow. We’d long since worked out this whole song and dance. “Of course it is,” I agreed easily, “When isn’t it?” Snow isn’t the best with sarcasm, but he seemed to get it this time, brows sinking lower down his forehead. 

“Oh shut it, asshole! I know what you did,” He huffs, one eye twitching. Through the haze of his magic, I could virtually smell his blood boiling under all that smoke. 

I’d snapped my book shut and tossed it aside, letting it bounce on the mattress with a soft thud. “What have I done this time, Golden Boy? Please, do tell.” 

His fists clenched tighter at his sides. “Don’t call me that! I- I  _ know _ you did something to Agatha!”

That threw me off my rhythm-- “Wellbelove?” I’d parroted.

“Yes, her! Who else?” There was a growl in his voice that sent a shiver down my spine. I tried not to think about it. “You- you did something to her, or said something!” 

I hadn’t spoken to Wellbelove all week. Crossing my arms over my chest, I told him so. 

“Liar!” Simon is a troll at the best of times, and downright barbaric at his worst. I’d seen it all, and yet I couldn’t find it in me to hate him. 

I stood up then, so I was taller than him, the way things should be. (He’d grown a good three inches over the summer, but I’d grown four.) “I didn’t do anything to your stupid girlfriend, Snow,” I spat, “Get over yourself. What even makes you think whatever lover’s quarrel you two are in has anything to do with me?”

His eyes narrowed and he huffed, face blotchy. I had half a mind to worry the room would catch fire at any moment, but I was so caught up in him, how  _ alive _ he was in that moment, staring up at me like a goddamned pitbull. “It’s always about you!” 

I’ll admit that caught me off guard. I reeled back, my knees hitting the mattress. “It’s really not,” Crawling back to the headboard and picking up my textbook once again, I’d protested, “So go fix your shit and talk to your goddamned girlfriend, Snow.” 

He’d grimaced, his resolve dissipating, leaving him looking sadder than I’d seen him in a long time. Belatedly, my heart ached for him. “She’s not my girlfriend. Not anymore.” 

I didn’t have anything to say to that, so I just stuck my nose in my homework and pretended I was too good to dignify him with a response. 

He’d stumbled out the door then, probably to cry into Bunce’s sweatered shoulder, leaving me alone in the room again. And watching the words go blurry before my unfocused eyes, I began to hatch a plan. Plotting, Simon would call it. He’d have a fucking field day if he knew that this time I really  _ was _ scheming. Something not quite evil-- something even better. 

It’d taken me two weeks to perfect the spell, and in that time Snow had mellowed out. He hadn’t gone off that I knew of, and hardly even picked a fight with me. The only way I can get a rise out of him is by picking at his wounds, which even I will admit is a dick move, but desperate times call for measures. He’ll sulk, and mope, and stink up the room for once not with his magic but with his melancholy, and I’ll get so starved for attention that I’ll shout at him. I don’t often shout, and I can tell he doesn’t like it; he flinches like a scared child. (I wonder if they yelled at him at the homes. I wonder if the Mage ever yells at him like that.) 

It’s a simple spell, but supposed to work wonders.  **I’d rather lie than tell you I’m in love with you.** It’s a fairly new quote, which makes me nervous. While we’ve been taught that power comes from history, I just couldn’t find something in our textbooks that felt right. Ironically, one of last year's graduates came up with this one as their final exam-- it’d been a whole spectacle on the Lawn. I’m afraid it won’t even work, but it’s still so lovely. Unfortunately, it won’t  _ actually _ kill me if he doesn't feel the same. A shame, truly.

It’s daily basic, actually: First I have to conjure a ball of light, a basic skill even Snow has mastered by now. I say the words, and if he feels the same, it will glow pink. If not, I’ll be knocked unconscious. When the student had tried his spell out last june, he’s been so woozy afterwards he tripped off the stage at the ceremony. 

It requires me to be focused, and him to be standing still, not shouting baseless accusations in my face for once. (Alright, they’re not entirely baseless. And last year’s phoenix incident isn’t helping my reputation.) (Although the soot sprite mishap really was a mistake.) 

We have to be alone, which will be the hardest part, or possibly the easiest; any indication that I’m up to something and he’ll be bounding after me into the Wood, sword raised. A skeevy glance there, a bit of fervent scribbling in my notebook here, maybe a few hushed whispers to Dev and Niall for good measure, and we’re in business. 

Or so I thought-- provoking him is proving harder than usual. He’s so down in the dumps that he won’t even look at me. While usually he’s got a constant glare going from across the dining room, shovelling food into his mouth like he’s starved, all I get now is a split-second glance before he goes back to listening helplessly to Bunce’s babbling with glazed-eyes. (The most shocking part of it all is that even Snow’s appetite is taking a hit. He only got two plates at dinner last night.) 

Wellbelove sits on her own most days, and the rest she doesn't come to meals entirely. 

I’ve just finished mastering the intonation, sitting on my own under the biggest yew tree on the Lawn, when I see him stalking into the trees. This could be my opening-- I jump to my feet, tucking my wand into my back pocket as I scurry after him. I probably look ridiculous, but I’ve got no choice. I’m not letting this opportunity slip away. 

It’s barely five, so it’s not hard to see his footsteps in the mud. Branches scratch at my sides as I shuffle after him, trying to keep my distance. I can hear everything in here: the birds calling one another, the rustle of the leaves, the wind sighing. Distantly, from behind me, there’s the sound of the moat, of a werewolf snarling and a student’s answering yelp. And ahead of me, I can smell that warm, buttery scent that’s so uniquely Simon’s. (There’s been hardly any smoke recently. Privately, I’ve revelled in it.)

I’ve spent enough time between these trees to know that there’s a wide clearing up ahead, with stones scattered in a semi-circle form a long-dead ritual. The bark surrounding the glade is charred and blackened. It was one of the things my mother put her foot down about, when she became headmaster-- no more hazing the first years with fire. I’m glad she put a stop to it before I ever got here, and relieved the Mage didn’t try and reinstate it. At least he has  _ some _ sense. 

He’s almost reached it, still unaware of me trailing silently behind, when I notice a new smell. I’d been too distracted to pick it up sooner, too focused on preparing for the spell. A floral smell, artificial, and sweat. (Not Simon’s-- deranged as I am, even his sweat is enchanting to me. Like something I’d gladly drink. Because I’m disturbed, ask anyone.)

Fuck. 

Gripping my head, I slide down the nearest tree, my back against the hard wood. In hindsight, it’s stupid of me to go stumbling after him like this. To grope blindly for any opportunity, without pausing for even the barest moment to ask myself where he’s going. He’d looked nervous, stomping into the trees, swordless and unarmed. Not to fight something, then. To meet someone. 

Someone who smells like flowery perfume, someone sweet and good and everything I’m not. 

Getting to my feet, I cautiously move toward the clearing again. It’s not far-- I’ve reached it in an instant. Tucking myself behind an old, crumbling oak, I watch them. 

If there’s one thing damned vampire senses are good for, it’s spying. Wellbelove has got her back to me, her uniform skirt hitched up too high. With the way the sun scatters through the foliage above us, dancing on her skin and the blond mass cascading down her back, she looks almost ethereal. 

And across from her, his hands palm down in hers, Simon looks just like her. They look like something from a story book, like the prince and his princess. ( _ Princes always end up with princesses _ , Mordelia’s voice nags in the back of my mind. Bitterly, I have to agree.)

He’s got this dazed, almost hopeful look on his face. I’ve half a mind to storm over and slap it off his face, but then Wellbelove is leaning in, pecking him on the cheek-- the one furthest from me, too so I’m tortured with the way his eyes flutter closed for half a second, and a slow smile spreads across his face. 

I’m so fucking stupid-- how could I think that this would work out? How could I be so gullible? I’m certain there’s no reality in which Snow has feelings for me, no possibility of anything but hatred ever blossoming between us. In the end, I’m meant to die with his sword embedded in my chest and his flames licking up around me. The only way this ends is in flames. 

Wellbelove’s turned now, dragging him by the hand back the way they came-- I stumble backwards, tripping over the roots at my feet and landing hard on my ass. Desperately, I scramble back on my hands and knees, crawling behind a bush. The thorns dig at my arms through my blazer, and the mud is most definitely going to stain my shirt, but I can’t be bothered with it right now, because the two of them pass me without taking notice, too wrapped up in one another to see me. 

When I’m certain they’re too far to see or hear me, I roll out, landing flat on my back in the mud. Looking up at the branches above me, I can feel a tear trickle down the side of my face. I don’t bother wiping it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when will the next one be up? who fucken knows

**Author's Note:**

> feedback would be lovely!
> 
> [join the discord server! full of new friends!](https://discord.gg/aPRwTUP)   
>  [i run a snowbaz au on insta](https://www.instagram.com/snowbaz_twitter_au/)   
>  [my t*mblr](angryjane.tumblr.com)


End file.
